Promises
by noctuua
Summary: The bark of the tree bites into her shoulder blades but she finds she doesn't mind because of the way Daryl's lips are blazing a path down the smooth column of her neck, his teeth nipping and tongue soothing. Daryl/OC. One-shot. Rated for smut.


_A/N: There's not really a set time for this, probably around the beginning of season 1 when they still have their camp outside of Atlanta. I prefer picturing Daryl with someone who isn't in the show already, but for the purposes of this story, the OC is nameless and ageless. Be creative. :-) Reviews are always appreciated._

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It's about 3 am and she's not sure what's woken her but she hears a rustling outside her tent and her ears twitch, attentive.

She can feel the stream of light that filters through the netting of the ceiling and she noise is gone. _Probably just an animal_, she thinks.

Sleep devours her once more and her muscles are just beginning to relax when a rough hand riddled with scars and callouses wraps around her jaw, the fingers forcing her screams back down.

Her body writhes beneath the one on top of hers and she thinks this is it, this is how she'll die, trapped underneath a decaying pile of flesh, teeth gnashing and chomping. She squeezes her eyes shut and braces herself for the impending bite, the tear of skin and muscle, but it never comes.

Her eyes slide open slowly, lashes kissing the tops of her cheeks as she blinks away tears and she realizes that there's a huge fucking archer straddling her thighs, his palm still glued to her lips.

He's staring at her, blue eyes piercing and calm all at once and her brow begins to furrow. She punches at him, her fist skimming his jaw and he yanks his hand away from her mouth to take her delicate wrists in his grasp.

"Daryl, you _ass_!" She hisses up at him, and she'd be shrieking if it weren't 3 in the fucking morning.

His lips curl up into a lopsided smirk and he pulls her up with him as he goes to stand.

"What the fuck do you think you're _doing_?" Her eyes flash with anger and if Daryl weren't, well, _Daryl_, he might be a little scared. But the girl is almost a head shorter than him and she's got about half his body mass, so he's not too worried.

He yanks at her arms again as they exit the tent and looks at her over his shoulder, muttering, "Keep yer voice down."

They continue towards the trees.

A few meters in, she pulls her hand from his grasp.

"What happened to me being 'too young?'" She can't help but pout and Daryl hates himself for thinking it's a really cute look on her. The push of her soft lower lip and the jut of her jaw; the crease between her brows and the glint in her eyes. He thinks she's beautiful when she's angry.

"You ain't too young," he mumbles, turning and continuing down whatever path they're following. "I'm too old."

She scoffs and turns her head to look at their surroundings, not realizing he's stopped until she practically walks into him, her cheek connecting with the hard plane of his chest.

"Really. What changed your mind?" She realizes she's actually curious, but she also wants to know it's not just going to be a quick fuck.

The way he stares at her with those steely blue eyes has her feeling something, though, a sort of ache in her belly, and the depth of those beautiful eyes has her entranced. She doesn't even care when he doesn't answer her, just crushes his lips against hers, as if hoping it'll be enough to satisfy her, one large hand cupping the back of her neck and anchoring her to him.

They move backwards, Daryl pushing and her pulling, until her shoulders hit a tree and he presses his pelvis into hers.

The feel of his tongue as it swipes over her lips, requesting—no—demanding entry brings her back to a week ago when he'd had her backed up against different tree, his palms hot on her breasts and his tongue halfway down her throat.

She knew he'd come around.

The bark of the tree bites into her shoulder blades but she finds she doesn't mind because of the way Daryl's lips are blazing a path down the smooth column of her neck, his teeth nipping and tongue soothing.

She's not wearing a bra because she never wears one to bed, and she can feel the way his lips curve up into a smile as his hands glide over her waist to cup her tits. The way he rolls her nipples between his thumb and forefinger has her throwing her head back and she moans so loudly that he has to cover her lips with his own, swallowing her desperate cries.

When she's quieted down, he slides a hand into her shorts, swiping his fingers over her panties impatiently and he groans when he feels how soaked they are.

The cotton shorts are down her thighs within seconds, underwear pulled to the side, and Daryl's fingers pumping in and out of her, palm grinding against her clit.

She can feel him through his jeans as he rubs against her hip to the rhythm of his palm, hot and hard, and she thinks she might drool.

Through the haze of pleasure, she gathers enough wits about her to unbuckle his belt and slide the already low slung jeans over his hips, along with his underwear.

He removes his fingers from her and she whines at the sudden empty feeling, and then he's got her turned around, his hands gripping her hips, fingers biting into her flesh hard enough to bruise, about to slide into her when she remembers and gasps, "Condom!"

He swears loudly and the southern drawl in his voice makes her even wetter.

The rustling of jeans is brief and then he's sliding into her so suddenly, filling her and it's been a while, but she's so fucking wet that it doesn't even matter, and he gives her a moment to adjust when he's got his pelvis pressed against her ass.

She squeezes her muscles around him when she's ready and she revels in the hiss he lets out, the way he curses under his breath, and then he's thrusting into her, her knees buckling and nails scrabbling against the rough bark of the tree.

She tries to keep quiet, she really does, because she realizes that they're in the middle of the woods and that the living dead are stumbling through the trees, most likely heading towards the loud noises they're making, but Daryl's got her hair tangled around his fingers, exposing her neck so he can suck on it while he fucks her.

He loves the arch of her back and the push of her hips and the way she puts her hand over his as he shoves it between her thighs.

She loves the way her name tumbles from his lips and the way it sounds when he says it with his accent, like the sweet, slow drip of honey. The way she can feel his muscles tremble with exertion.

She's moaning pretty loudly, though, so Daryl lets go of her hair, his hand wrapping around to cover her mouth once more.

They both love it—the danger, the thrill. The possibility of being caught by someone (or something). Plus, they're the best fucks either of them have ever had.

He can feel her tongue sliding against his palm and she sucks two of his fingers between her lips, her teeth scraping against the rough skin and tongue twisting around them just like it would if her mouth were on his cock.

Daryl can feel his balls tightening, the coil at the base of his spine ready to spring.

He slams his pelvis into her ass right as he bites down on the skin below her ear, and her cry is muffled by his fingers but he can feel her whole body stiffen, clench around him and he's pretty sure he sees stars.

As their bodies come down slowly, chests heaving and breathing ragged, he can feel the tremors that wrack through her as her body pushes him out. He slides the condom off and tosses it into the bushes nearby while she adjusts her panties and pulls her shorts up, pussy still wet and throbbing. She's glad she kept her shirt on or she'd have scratches up and down her chest to match the ones on her back.

When they're both back to normal, they kiss again and this time they take their time exploring and teasing, and Daryl might worry more if he hadn't just had the best fuck of his life.

He walks her back to her tent, smacking her sharply on the ass as she crawls inside, and his smile and eyes convey promises that he's not sure he'll be able to keep.


End file.
